


Love to Hate

by sunken_ships (sunken__ships)



Series: write like you're running out of time [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Desk Sex, Face-Fucking, Hate Sex, M/M, Office Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, a little bit, alexander hamilton is a little shit, but it's not like super rough, but like the plot is hidden, i guess, so really it's, they have ambiguous jobs in an office? don't question it, thomas doesn't know the plot he just thinks this is a porn without plot, yes it's modern times but just pretend historical events are still happening okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10077821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken__ships/pseuds/sunken_ships
Summary: Inspired by the lyric: "I know you hate him, but let's hear what he has to say."Thomas Jefferson is tired. He's still at the office. It's 2am. He still has work to do.Then Alexander Hamilton waltzes into the room like he owns the place, with a sway of his hips and to-do list to complete.And Thomas is at the top of that list.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first published explicit fic so i am v nervous but don't be afraid to leave constructive criticism if need be.  
> it's 1:20am here and i think i'm publishing this bc i'm so tired i'm delusional.  
> i wrote this like maybe 6 months ago but anywayyyyy here it is i hope u like it don't tell my mum xx

**I know you hate him, but let's hear what he has to say.**

 

Thomas sits at his desk, two piles of paper in front of him. One pile can wait until tomorrow; one pile has to be attended to tonight. It should have been attended to earlier today, but no.

He sighs, sitting back in his chair, dragging his hands down his face. Jesus Christ, he’s tired. He glances at his watch. Twenty past one. And he’s still at the fucking office. Even Alexander Hamilton has gone home. Thomas must be breaking some new kind of record.

Thomas’ gut twists in anger at the thought of Alexander Hamilton. It’s _because_ of him that Thomas is still at the office now. The whole day was spent fighting over some stupid bill of his, which took up all of Thomas’ time, meaning that all the work that Thomas intended to complete went untouched.

Until now.

Thomas scowls. Fucking Hamilton.

The office door opens, and Thomas jumps in surprise.

Speak of the fucking devil.

“Hamilton?” he says incredulously. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised – yes, he thought that he’d gone home, but Hamilton never leaves the office. He’s still dressed in his work clothes, although he’s ditched the jacket and tie.

Hamilton stands in the doorway, making no move to enter. “Jefferson,” he replies, leaning against the doorjamb, crossing his arms.

Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. “What do you want now?”

“What, I can’t just visit my work colleague?” Hamilton says, wandering into the room, but his tone and smile tells Thomas that he’s completely bullshitting.

“What do you want, Hamilton? I’m just about to go home. You’ve already eaten up enough of my time today, and I’m exhausted.”

“Stressed?” Hamilton says with a quirk of his eyebrow.

Thomas pauses. What _is_ Hamilton doing here, anyway? “Of course,” he says. “Isn’t everyone here in a perpetual state of stress?”

Hamilton shrugs, making a sound of agreement. He stops a few feet from Thomas, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Thomas feels like a gazelle being watched by a hungry tiger. It’s an unusual and unpleasant feeling. Usually he leaves the office earlier; usually, when he has to face Hamilton, he’s refreshed and ready to battle.

He’s not at all ready to battle now. He’s completely out of his depth.

But Hamilton, despite the dark shadows underneath his eyes, looks ready to pounce, his dark eyes watching Thomas intensely. Good God, how does the man do it? Caffeine? Drugs? Sheer willpower?

Thomas pushes his chair back, standing, hoping that, by towering over Hamilton, as he usually does, he’ll claw some power back. It barely works. Hamilton is a good five inches shorter than him, yes, but Thomas has never felt so small.

“Are you just here to bother me, Hamilton?” he snarks. “Is this your bedroom? Do you want me to leave? I assume you sleep here.”

Hamilton shrugs. “No. I just heard that you were here. Came to say hi.”

Thomas snorts. “I didn’t realise that that was a thing we did now.”

“Well, why not?”

Hamilton cocks his head, looking at Thomas in a way that is _very_ foreign to Thomas’ eyes. Usually, when Hamilton looks at him, his lip is curled, his brow is furrowed, his eyes are filled to the brim with barely-contained rage. More often that not, that rage simply _isn’t_ contained.

Now, Hamilton has a small smile on his lips. Thomas can still see the fierce intelligence, the fight in his eyes – Thomas is fairly certain that that never goes away, no matter the expression on the man’s face – but there’s something else there, too. Thomas can’t pinpoint it, but it makes his stomach bubble.

He doesn’t know why.

He breathes out sharply, looking back to his desk. He doesn’t really have a response for Hamilton’s question, and he’s half sure that it was rhetorical, anyway. Why don’t they say hi? Easy: because they hate each other. They want to tear each other’s throats out. They don’t just _say hi_. Did Zeus and Hades drop in to each other’s realms just to _say hi_?

Thomas almost laughs aloud. Comparing Hamilton and himself to gods. It sounds like something Hamilton would do.

“As stupid as you are, Hamilton,” he says with a sigh, his fingertips brushing one of the piles of paper on his desk, “you’re not an idiot. I think you know the answer to that.”

Hamilton chuckles, and Thomas looks to him again. He’s never heard him chuckle. Not like that – not without bitterness or mirth. Without sarcasm. Just an innocent laugh. Because he found something that Thomas said funny.

Thomas has no idea what to make of any of it.

He shakes his head, and turns back to his desk, finishing packing up for the day.

“How’s Madison?” Hamilton asks.

Thomas pauses, but then continues his task. “Fine,” he says shortly. He risks a glance over his shoulder, about to ask why Hamilton is asking about James, but the question vanishes from his tongue.

Hamilton has moved a step or two closer, almost close enough to lean against Thomas’ desk. But the first thing that Thomas notices is Hamilton’s eyes darting to his face.

Well, _back_ to his face. From his ass.

Thomas stands up sharply, unsure of how to process this new information. Was Hamilton… checking him out?

It must have been a mistake. There is no way that _Hamilton_ was _checking him out_.

He watches as Hamilton’s eyes seem to absentmindedly drift down his throat. “What are you doing?” he asks bluntly.

Hamilton refocuses on his face. “Hmm?”

“Don’t ‘hmm’,” Thomas says. “What are you doing? What are you doing here?”

Hamilton shrugs, and opens his mouth to speak, but Thomas cuts him off. “No, don’t bullshit me, Hamilton. You ambush me when I’m just about to go home, when I’m physically and mentally exhausted, and you… you’re acting nice.” Thomas points a finger at him. “You’re trying to get something from me, but I’m not having any of that shit. Fuck off, leave me alone.”

That small smile is back on Hamilton’s mouth. “What could I possibly be trying to get from you, Thomas?”

Thomas stops. ‘Thomas’? They never call each other by their first names. It’s ‘Hamilton’ and ‘Jefferson’, not ‘Alexander’ and ‘Thomas’. “Any number of things,” he mutters. Everything is now packed and he closes his messenger bag, slings it over his shoulder.

“Could it be possible that I just want to speak to you?” Hamilton persists.

Thomas glares at him. “We both know the answer to that is no.”

“Why not?” Hamilton says for the second time that night. He laughs, and it sounds a little more like the Hamilton that Thomas knows – somewhat exasperated. “I mean, Jesus, we argue all the time. Somehow, we never run out of things to argue about. There’s no such thing as an awkward silence between us. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

Thomas frowns. “No. There’s plenty to argue about when the person you’re arguing with is a brainless asshole.”

Hamilton just smiles, wider than before, and it looks like a genuine smile. Like Hamilton is _enjoying_ this. Like he _wants_ to keep talking to Thomas. “There are few people I know who I never run out of things to talk about with.”

“We don’t ‘talk’,” Thomas says, making that very clear. “We argue. We fight. We piss each other off. We do not ‘ _talk’_.” He throws his hands in the air. “Where is this coming from? Why don’t you just fuck off back to your little hobbit hole and let me go to bed?”

“There aren’t many other people who can match me, you know,” Hamilton says. “I’m told I’m relentless. Unforgiving. A pain in the ass.”

“You’re all of those things,” Thomas mutters.

“But so are you.”

Thomas gives him a look. “Okay, good to know, Hamilton,” he drawls sarcastically.

“No, I don’t mean that negatively,” Hamilton says, and he’s looking bright and perky and almost as if he’s about to start bouncing on the balls of his feet like a puppy.

Thomas frowns. No. Not like a puppy. Puppies are cute. More like a… like a… Fuck, he’s tired.

“We’re both relentless, unforgiving pains in the ass,” Hamilton continues. “Only we can tolerate each other.”

“Speak for yourself,” Thomas says. “Plenty of people tolerate me. More than that – people _like_ me.”

“Really?” Hamilton says, raising an eyebrow. “How many people can you actually argue with, huh? Before they just give up and agree with you?”

Thomas falls silent. No one. He knows that already. He just gets his way. His height, his confidence, his overwhelming presence – they’re all instruments he uses to get what he wants.

Thomas looks at Hamilton. Hamilton can’t use his height the same way Thomas can use his, obviously, but it’s impossible to deny that he has an overwhelming presence. People are either magnetised to him or repulsed by him.

Thomas leans against his desk with a sigh. “So what’s your point, Hamilton? Okay, we’re both loud, we both like to argue with each other. We both get our way, sure. So?”

Hamilton hesitates, and then wanders closer, perching beside Thomas on the desk, their elbows almost grazing. “So, why can’t we just _talk_ to each other?” he asks.

“Why do you _want_ to talk to me?” Thomas asks, baffled. But he doesn’t distance himself. He doesn’t move away.

Hamilton looks up at him, studying his face, and this is probably the first time Thomas has seen him up close like this. God, his eyes are dark. Almost black. And they’re so… open. Thomas can read them like the Declaration of Independence. And his lips are pinker than Thomas had previously realised, softer–

Thomas looks away sharply. Fuck, was he just staring at Hamilton’s _mouth_? Why the fuck did he do that?

Feeling an inexplicable blush crawl up his neck, he stands up, not looking at Hamilton. He clears his throat. “Well, this has been just fantastic,” he says. “So worth the energy. But, unlike you, Hamilton, I actually need to sleep.”

“You’re not going home to sleep, though, are you?” Hamilton counters.

Thomas looks at him, and Hamilton nods to his messenger bag. “You got all that work to finish.”

“Which I would have finished today, if it wasn’t for you,” Thomas says, but the words don’t carry half the venom that he intended.

Hamilton smiles, a little boyish smile, playful, and shrugs. “Guilty.”

Thomas swallows. _I can see why they called him a tomcat_ , he thinks, and he doesn’t know why he thought that. Sure, objectively speaking, Hamilton isn’t, y’know, _terrible_ to look at. His personality ruins any chance he has of being perceived as attractive, but purely from a physical perspective, he’s… He’s fine. Not awful, maybe.

And he does have charm. Not that Thomas has seen it, but he must do, to pull attention like he does. He’s undoubtedly passionate – that, Thomas can admit freely – and perhaps that can be seen as, well, entertaining. Appealing. It could, possibly, lead one to wonder if he’s passionate about, well, _everything_ he puts his mind to.

Not that Thomas thinks any of that. It’s just a fact: Alexander Hamilton has some kind of draw to him. For most people. But not Thomas.

Thomas rubs at his face, shaking his head to clear it. He needs to sleep. He needs to get home, get this work done, and dive headfirst into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness.

He goes to leave, but stops for a second longer to ask, “Why did you come to talk to me tonight? Waste both of our time?”

Hamilton takes a breath in, thinking, and he stands up, takes the two steps it takes to reach Thomas, far closer than Thomas is used to. They’re practically toe-to-toe. “I can’t say for sure,” he says eventually. “I like a challenge.” He tilts his head to the side. “No, that’s not the right word. I like… to be kept on my toes. A change of scenery.”

Thomas’ heart is beating quickly. He ignores it. “What, and being nice to me is a change of scenery?”

“Not arguing with you is a change of scenery,” Hamilton clarifies. “Seeing you in a different light.” He gives Thomas a slow smile. “I have to say, it’s much more flattering for you.”

Thomas feels adrenaline buzz through him like some kind of drug. That was… Is Hamilton flirting with him?

Thomas feels stupid for thinking that question. Yes. Yes, for some unknown reason, Hamilton is flirting with him. The wandering gaze, the smiling, the closeness. He’s been reeling Thomas in front the moment he stepped into the room. Like a spider spinning a web. And Thomas is a fly that flew right into it.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s your game plan here, Hamilton?” he murmurs. “Why are you doing this?”

Hamilton sighs, and drops his gaze to Thomas’ shirt. He lifts his hands, and, gingerly, places them on Thomas’ chest. Thomas tenses, but doesn’t try to stop him. “You keep asking that,” Alexander says. “And, again, I’ll respond with the same answer I’ve been giving you all night.” He meets Thomas’ gaze again, with those fucking _eyes_ , and suddenly Thomas’ pressing work duties seem very distant and very boring. “Why not?”

“I can think of a few reasons why,” Thomas replies. If his will is going to crumble, it’s not going without a fight.

Hamilton grins. “Oh, really? You gonna try to rationalise your way out of this one?”

“It wouldn’t take much.”

“Well, let me tell you something, Thomas,” Hamilton says. “We’re both stressed. We’re tired. We’re alone. And we are both relentless and unforgiving.” He raises his eyebrows. “And you’re a pain – in my ass.”

Thomas takes a moment to comprehend what Hamilton just said, and when he did, he blinked in surprise. Hamilton had… to the thought of _Thomas_?

Thomas closes his eyes, and takes a breath, trying to clear his head. “No,” he says firmly. “No, this makes no sense. You’re up to something.”

He steps away, his chest cold now where Hamilton’s hands had been, and grips his messenger bag, striding towards to door.

“You’re a coward,” Hamilton calls to him.

“Fuck off,” he says, reaching for the doorhandle.

“Bet you’re not even good.”

Thomas spins around, his hand gripping the handle. “You’re so fucking childish,” he snaps.

Hamilton is grinning again, looking like that puppy that Thomas refused to compare him to earlier. “Oh, _that’s_ what got you to turn around? I had a whole bunch of insults ready. You’re too easy.”

Thomas’ eyebrows fly up. “ _I’m_ easy? You literally walked into my office to try to get me to sleep with you.”

Hamilton sucks air in between his teeth. “And it’s _really_ pissing you off that you don’t know why, isn’t it? That you can’t figure it out?”

Thomas glares at him. “How do you know I don’t know? I could just be pretending to be confused.”

“You would’ve said so if you knew.”

Hamilton has Thomas there.

Thomas just shakes his head. “You know, just for the record, I am _very_ good.”

“Are you, now?”

“I earned myself a reputation, back in France,” Thomas insists. “I could’ve had any woman I wanted.”

“Is that so?”

“I _did_ have any woman I wanted.”

“Sure.”

“The only reason I don’t now is because I choose not to.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Fucking…” Thomas throws off his messenger bag, storming back over to Hamilton, who just stands there, smiling like a fucking imbecile. “Will you fucking _stop_? Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking…” He can’t think of a word to fully encompass just how much he despises the man in front of him. “You’re a prick. A complete and utter prick. How does _anyone_ tolerate you? How do you have _any_ friends? I’d say that you paid them, but you don’t have any fucking money.”

Hamilton, for once in his life, says nothing, just watching Thomas yell.

And, yes, Thomas is yelling. Not his proudest moment. But at that point, he doesn’t care.

“What do you even _do_ when you hole up here in this office? Do you actually do anything worthwhile? Or do you just sit on Twitter like a fucking twelve-year-old? Or – or on whatever the fuck else you use? Do you just write sad little poems about how shitty your life is? Do you just sit there at your desk and jerk off? Do–”

The wind is instantly taken from his sails as he realises what he just said. More than that – he gets distracted by the thought of it. Hamilton, sitting at his desk, naked only from the waist down, stroking himself, slowly at first, his eyes closed, moaning filthily, his teeth gnawing his pink bottom lip–

“Jesus Christ,” Thomas says before he realises he’s spoken, his voice weak, and he steps away, running a hand over his hair. He can feel he’s moments away from getting hard, and that is just not something he wants to deal with.

This is new. This is very new. He is suddenly feeling attracted to Alexander fucking Hamilton, and he doesn’t quite know what do to with this information.

“Sometimes I do,” Hamilton says, stopping him in his tracks. “I work, yeah, but I’m only human. Sometimes my mind gets distracted.”

“No,” Thomas says. “No, no, I don’t want to know.” His body and imagination tell him otherwise.

“And because there’s no one here, I can be as loud as I want,” Hamilton continues. “And God, I’m loud. I’m so loud. And I almost always get off to the thought of having a dick in my mouth. Sometimes a clit, but mostly dick. There’s just something so satisfying about just being mouth-fucked. Just used like some whore. I love it. I crave it.”

Thomas gawks, and, oh dear, he’s most certainly hard now. He has no idea what to do.

Hamilton marches up to him, grabs him by his belt loops. “And you get so fucking mad at me,” he all but growls, rubbing his thigh against Thomas’ crotch. Thomas lets out a strangled gasp. “And sometimes you look like you want to just _grab_ me. Do it. Fucking use me, Thomas. Just think of how much you hate me, and how much I hate you, and just _fucking_ –” His voice breaks.

Thomas grabs his face and pulls him in for a bruising kiss. Hamilton immediately goes for his shirt, fumbling with the buttons, untucking it from his trousers. When he’s done, Thomas pulls away to finish the job, yanking his hands from the stiff cuffs and chucking his shirt on the ground. Hamilton licks his lips hungrily, his eyes flicking all around Thomas’ torso like he’s looking at a fucking treasure chest full of gold.

“Desk,” Thomas snaps, and Hamilton hurries to his desk, hopping up to sit on its edge, his legs spread.

Thomas rolls his eyes. “Fuck, you _are_ easy.”

“Fuck me till I can’t walk,” is all Hamilton says, breathlessly, making Thomas’ dick jump.

Thomas steps in between his legs, kissing him fiercely, nipping at his lip. Hamilton moans, and Thomas’ hips jerk in response. Shit, that is one of the hottest things Thomas has ever heard.

Hamilton palms at Thomas’ cock through his trousers, and Thomas grinds out a low moan. It has been way too long since Thomas has had any action, and Hamilton really knows what to do with his hand. He pulls back, tearing off Hamilton’s shirt, and then shoves at him, prompting him to lie flat on the desk, on top of pencils and pens and random sheets of paper, almost smacking the back of his head on Thomas’ desk lamp, and Thomas fiddles with his belt. Hamilton just whines impatiently as Thomas spits out expletives. _Stupid fucking belt_. But finally, Thomas has Hamilton’s belt undone, and then the button and zipper, and Hamilton lifts his hips, allowing Thomas to yank his trousers down to his knees. Hamilton is wearing green boxers, and they’re tented in a way that may or may not make Thomas’ mouth water a little. Not that he’d ever admit it.

“Fuck, Hamilton, get your shoes off,” Thomas says exasperatedly.

“Only if you get your pants off so I can see that cock of yours,” Hamilton says, sitting up and kicking his shoes off.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” Thomas retorts, but scrambles to fulfil his end of the bargain anyway, toeing off his shoes and pulling off his socks and trousers.

They collide together again, Hamilton gripping Thomas’ ass, the kisses hot and hungry. Hamilton kisses like he’ll die otherwise, letting out little desperate whimpers.

If there’s two things Hamilton can do, Thomas decides, it’s argue, and kiss.

Hamilton pushes at Thomas’ chest. Thomas takes a moment for his brain to start working again, and when it does, he steps back. “What is it?” he says, his chest heaving.

“Get back,” Hamilton says, and Thomas shuffles back further, getting this horrible feeling that everything is about to come crashing down around his ears, but then Hamilton slides off the desk and drops to his knees in front of Thomas, and _oh_.

Hamilton wastes no time in mouthing at Thomas’ cock through his boxers, and Thomas lets out a moan. “Oh, fuck.”

Hamilton withdraws slightly, grinning up at Thomas. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“Hurry up and suck my dick so I don’t have to hear you talk,” Thomas says in response, and Hamilton laughs.

“Yes, sir,” he says sarcastically, and pushes Thomas underwear down his legs. He runs the flat of his tongue up the underside of Thomas’ cock, and Thomas’ breathing goes ragged. Hamilton sucks the head into his mouth, and Thomas’ hands fly to Hamilton’s hair. Hamilton pauses to spit into his hand, and then takes Thomas in again, wrapping his hand around the rest.

Thomas watches, stunned at the filthy scene before him. He bites his lip, hard, to keep from rocking into Hamilton’s mouth, because, _fuck_ , Hamilton is good at giving head. His mouth is hot and wet, and his tongue twirls around the head, brushing over the slit in just the right way.

Hamilton moans, and Thomas’ knees almost buckle, his hips jerking forward. “Shit,” he hisses.

Hamilton pulls off with an obscene pop, but continues to pump at Thomas with his fist. “I meant it,” he says. “Fuck my mouth.”

“Actually?” Thomas says, quite distracted by Hamilton’s hand, but somehow managing to listen to what Hamilton is saying.

Hamilton runs his tongue over Thomas’ slit, and Thomas sucks in a sharp breath, hips bucking.

“Christ, of all times, _now_ is when you second-guess yourself?” Hamilton says.

“I’m not second-guessing myself,” Thomas snaps harshly. Hamilton twists his hand just so, and a shudder runs through Thomas, a moan dripping from his lips. “Fuck, okay, fine, yes.”

The truth is, he’s never done that before. In all honesty, he mostly sleeps with women, and he prefers giving head and fucking to receiving head. Well, if everyone could give head like Hamilton, it might be a different story. And sure, the idea is really fucking hot, but it can’t be comfortable for the recipient. Even if the recipient is someone that he hates.

Hamilton swallows Thomas again, and Thomas lets his head tip back. He bites his lip again, but this time in concentration. Slowly, he begins to rock into Hamilton’s mouth, and he feels Hamilton nod eagerly. The more he does it, the more comfortable he feels, and soon he’s picking up the pace. Hamilton just takes him, and, God, that’s fucking hot.

Thomas looks down, and Hamilton is palming at himself with one hand and resting the other on Thomas’ hip, his eyes closed, jaw slack, saliva gathering at the corners of his lips. Thomas moans – Hamilton is actually _getting off to this_ – and then, his thrusts growing a little erratic, realising he is only moments away from coming, quickly pulls out, clenching his fists, grunting out, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He’s never been into orgasm denial, and it’s almost painful, how badly he wants to come. He has a feeling it’s not something he’ll try again in the near future.

Hamilton wipes at the tears in the corners of his eyes and the spit around his mouth. “What?” he gasps, his voice hoarse.

Thomas is panting, and he gestures to the desk with a violent hand, resisting the urge to just finish off the job himself. Just a few pumps, that’s all it would take at this point. “I want to fuck you before I come,” he grinds out.

Hamilton groans, digging the heel of his hand against his groin, his bottom lip between his teeth. “Oh my God,” he whimpers.

“Up,” Thomas says urgently. “I have a… Shit, I don’t have lube. Fuck.”

“I do,” Hamilton says, scrambling for his slacks. He pulls out a condom and a bottle of lube, and Thomas raises his eyebrows.

“You came prepared.”

“Be thankful I did.”

Thomas can’t argue with that. “Underwear off,” he demands, and Hamilton kicks it off before sitting back on the desk. Thomas grabs the lube and then pauses, changing his mind. “Off the desk.”

Hamilton does so instantly. “What?”

Thomas takes Hamilton’s place on the desk, and then waves him over. “Get up.”

“Huh?”

“Sit on my lap, you fucking moron. I don’t do this often, I want to make it as easy for myself as possible.”

Hamilton smiles and clambers on, knees on either side of Thomas’ hips. “I thought you said you had an endless line of women in France.”

“Yeah, women. Not men.”

“You disappointed in that department, did you?”

Thomas tries to shove him off, but then Hamilton grabs his shoulders with a yelp.

“It was by choice,” Thomas humphs. “Now stop talking. You’re much more bearable that way.”

“Fine by me,” Hamilton says, and wraps his arms around Thomas’ neck, pressing their lips together. The action causes their dicks to brush, and both men moan into each other’s mouths, Thomas curling his arms around Hamilton’s waist. Hamilton begins rocking against him, the friction just too intoxicating to resist, and Thomas’ is struggling to remember what his original aim was here.

When he finally does remember, he mumbles around Hamilton’s lips, “Stop it.”

Hamilton pulls back, resting his forehead against Thomas’ in an oddly intimate way, and Thomas can see the way he bites his lip, his brow furrowed, obviously going to great efforts to stop his rocking. A shudder goes through him, and he clenches his jaw. He looks up at Thomas through his lashes, and, maybe for the first time, Thomas gets the full effect of just how magnetic Hamilton can be. He suddenly realises why everyone’s low-key lining up to sleep with the guy.

“Please fuck me,” Hamilton whimpers, and Thomas reaches for the lube, slicking up his fingers. He presses a fingertip to Hamilton’s asshole, and Hamilton nods earnestly. “Please, please, please.”

Thomas slides the tip of a finger in, takes his time working Hamilton open. Hamilton lets his head fall back, sighing blissfully, and, surprising himself, Thomas can’t help but lean forward, kissing Hamilton’s neck. Hamilton moans, and, encouraged, Thomas bites down at where his neck meets his shoulder, gradually working his finger.

He lets his lips travel up Hamilton’s neck and along his jaw, and then he pulls back, watching Hamilton’s face. He works slowly, gradually adding a second, and then a third finger. He can’t deny that he’s fascinated with the expressions on Hamilton’s face, and maybe he takes a little longer than he has to, just to watch Hamilton, his other hand pressed to the small of his back. Hamilton’s eyes are closed for the most part, and Thomas doesn’t know if he realises that he’s being watched with such rapture.

With just like everything that he does, Hamilton reacts totally and completely. A slight crease remains between his eyebrows the entire time, as if he’s actually makes an effort in focusing on the feeling of Thomas’ fingers. Every so often he takes his bottom lip in between his teeth, or his tongue darts out to wet it. He fucks himself of Thomas’ fingers as if he just can’t help it, sweat beading on his brow, letting out little grunts and moans as he does so.

Thomas does not have feelings for Hamilton other than frustration and anger. And he’d never admit it to anyone, but in that moment, he wishes he could record Hamilton’s expressions, because they’re a damn work of art.

Eventually, though, Hamilton opens his eyes, and Thomas’ face grows dark at being caught staring. “You gonna fuck me now, or just keep watching me?”

Thomas clears his throat. He can’t come up with a witty enough response, so instead he just slowly eases his fingers from Hamilton – his cock is very interested in the almost pained whimper Hamilton lets out because of it – and reaches for the lube and the condom. He tears open the condom and rolls it on, adding some extra lube because enough is never enough, and Hamilton sits up more so Thomas can position himself. And then Hamilton slowly sits down on him, breathing heavily, until he’s fully seated.

Thomas takes a moment or two to adjust. It feels so _good_.

Hamilton rocks his hips, and that feels _great_.

Thomas grips Hamilton’s hips. “Fucking move,” he grunts, and Hamilton starts fucking himself on Thomas’ cock. Thomas groans, his eyes squeezing shut. Hamilton leans forward and starts kissing his neck, nipping gently, and Thomas lets out a breathless laugh. Of all the things that he thought would happen today, being ridden by Alexander Hamilton on his desk at two o’clock in the morning was not one of them.

That being said, he’s not complaining.

Which also comes as a surprise.

Hamilton stops kissing him and slows, shaking his head. Thomas wants to throw his hands in the air in exasperation. “ _What_?” he growls.

“I want more,” Hamilton says. Wincing, he pulls himself off Thomas and gets to the ground. “I want you to _fuck_ me, Thomas. I want to _bruise_.”

Thomas gets up from the desk. “All right then, if you’re so fussy,” he says, waving to the desk. “Show me. I can’t know everything.”

Hamilton goes to the desk and faces away from Thomas. “Bend me over,” he says, clearly and precisely, “grab my hair, and _fuck. Me._ ”

Thomas’ cock jumps in interest, and he doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs a handful of Hamilton’s hair, pushing his head into the desk, and slides roughly back into him. Jesus, that’s satisfying. With one hand in Hamilton’s hair and the other gripping his hip, Thomas fucks Hamilton into the desk, slamming into him hard enough that he knows Hamilton’s thighs will be bruised from the edge of the desk tomorrow. Hamilton starts to babble – _Jesus fuck this feels so good fuck me fuck me oh God harder yes yes Thomas fuck you feel so good your cock feels so fucking good oh right oh oh yes oh_ – and Thomas isn’t surprised by it, but surprised by how much it turns him on. Hamilton, talking, a turn-on? That’s new.

He can feel himself very quickly reaching climax, and by the sounds of it, Hamilton’s not far off, either. His thrusts become erratic, and he knows he only has a few left in him, and Hamilton’s going _I’m so close oh God fuck yes yes please please please so close_ , and then Thomas tips over the edge, ecstasy shooting through him, moaning, “ _God, Alexander_.”

Hamilton sobs, and, still high from his orgasm, Thomas pulls out of him, turns him so they’re facing one another, wraps a fist around his cock and pumps – and Hamilton’s whimpering _Jefferson Jefferson fuck Thomas Thomas yes Thomas_ – until he comes over both of them.

Thomas’ thighs burn, and Hamilton is leaning heavily against Thomas’ desk. Thomas joins him, half-sitting on his desk, not in a dissimilar position to where they were earlier. Thomas takes the condom off and chucks it in his trash can nearby. They take a minute or two to gather their thoughts.

“That was something,” Hamilton says wearily.

Thomas grimaces, looking down at his hand, which is covered in Hamilton’s come. “Uh, did you come prepared for _after_?”

Hamilton shakes his head. “I didn’t really think that far ahead. That’s fine, I got you covered.” He takes Thomas’ hand and licks the come from it, sucking on each finger.

Thomas can’t help but laugh. “God, I should’ve guessed you’re a kinky son of a bitch.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t know the half of it,” Hamilton says. “I’m gonna lick your chest.”

And Thomas can do nothing – not that he wants to – while Hamilton runs his tongue across his torso, licking off any come.

Okay, it’s hot. That’s undeniable.

Hamilton finishes the job and pulls Thomas down for a slow, deep kiss. “Can you taste me?” he murmurs, and if Thomas were a younger man he would probably be getting hard again right about now.

Not that it’ll take much longer, if Hamilton keeps this shit up.

Hamilton pulls away, giving Thomas a shit-eating grin. “Admit it. I’m hot.”

“No,” Thomas says on reflex. “You’re a hideous bastard with the personality of a dead rock.”

“You’re probably gonna jerk off to the memory of this for years to come.”

 _Well, he’s not wrong_ , Thomas thinks. “You wish,” he says. “Too bad you’re shit.”

“Is that what you thought when you came, buried deep in my ass, moaning my name?”

“I did not moan your name.”

“You did, I heard you. You said ‘Alexander’.”

“ _You_ said ‘Thomas’.”

“I’ve been calling you Thomas all night–”

“It’d better only be for tonight. It’s weird, hearing you call me that.”

“–but _you_ called me _Alexander_ when you came.”

“You don’t have proof,” Thomas says flippantly. “And it’s not as if anyone will believe you when you tell them.”

“Tell them?” Hamilton shakes his head. “Oh no. This is just between you and me. I’m not telling anyone.”

“Good,” Thomas says. “Neither am I.” He cocks his head. “Is that the reason you came here tonight, being all nice? Because you wanted me to fuck you?”

Hamilton shrugs. “I heard you could be rough. It’s been a while for me. That’s how I like it.”

“Where the fuck did you hear that?”

“I have connections.”

Hamilton finally steps away, going about getting dressed again, leaving Thomas standing alone. “Wait, who _told you_?”

Hamilton does, in fact, go home after that, and Thomas doesn’t do any of the work he said he would, instead having a quick shower and falling straight into bed. He sleeps like the dead.

 

They still fight and argue, with no less heat, no less rage. They don’t fuck again, but Thomas often finds himself, yes, jerking off to the thought of Hamilton – those damn facial expressions – and coming with the name _Alexander_ on his lips. Because, no, he doesn’t have a crush on him, and he’s not secretly in love with him or some stupid shit like that, but Alexander Hamilton is a damn good fuck.

It’s a strange relationship they have now. Neither of them have feelings for each other, but there’s an added trust, almost – neither of them have told anyone what happened, and neither of them have used it for blackmail. Not yet, anyway. And, sometimes, when they find themselves waiting in the same line for coffee, they’ll make a joke to each other. _How’s the desk holding up?_ or _Still behind with your work?_. Sometimes, Thomas tries to guess Hamilton’s kinks – and it seems to be an endless list. One time, Hamilton just leans over and whispers, “‘God, Alexander’.” Thomas hits him on the arm for that.

Are they friends? No. Do they still hate each other? Of course. But the hate is for fun – they _like_ hating each other. They like arguing, and they like to have someone to argue with. But they’ve also found a way to put that arguing on pause every once in a while.

It’s strange. But Thomas doesn’t mind it.

So when Hamilton approaches him, asking to hear out his new debt plan and to arrange a meeting with them both and James Madison, Thomas actually takes the time to think it over. He doesn’t like Hamilton, and he hates his proposed debt plan even more, but then he finds himself having lunch with James one day, saying, “I think we should give him a shot.”

James almost drops his sandwich in shock. “Are you joking? Thomas, you hate him. _I_ hate him. Why on earth would you even consider it? He’s a royal dick.”

Thomas shrugs. “Could be interesting. If we don’t like it, we shut it down, no problem. I think we should hear him out.”

James gawks. “But _why_?”

Thomas grins. “Why not?”

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone's interested, i have also written this fic from ham's pov (which has a bonus added scene at the end). leave a comment if you'd be up for checking it out! thank u so much for reading this, love u all xx
> 
> UPDATE: i just uploaded ham's pov! thanks to those who stuck their hand up to say they wanted to read it :) it's called Fucked My Way Up to the Top, and it's in this series, so all you have to do is click that 'next work' button ;) please check it out if you're interested, but even if you're not, thanks for reading this one! xx


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